


;;-->> and icarus fell.

by Black



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games), Deus Ex: Human Revolution, Deus Ex: Mankind Divided
Genre: Anxiety, Blood, Depression, Disassociation, Experimental Style, Gore, Injury, Insecurity, M/M, NSFW, Other, Phantom Sensations, Self Harm, Self destruction, body parts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2018-08-13 09:40:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 8,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7972150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black/pseuds/Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Adam fixated ficlet collection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. of hive minds

**Author's Note:**

> A collection of drabbles centered around everything Deus Ex. Various characters, mostly Adam Jensen since he's my main muse. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. 
> 
> Requests open and welcome.

he sees them.  
in his dreams, on the streets.  
between the sheets as he pulls the pages back and heavy eyes haunt him and he sees them in the corners, crawling up the walls and

 _screaming_.

the blood had been far too much; he toed the edge of the room and saw it all pooling, hand prints ghosting across the floor leading to bodies torn apart. he looked to his own arms and watched the metal writhe; it wanted blood. needed blood. he resisted. although the channel, the noises, the switch, itched. he wanted to take part in the carnage.

”I almost joined,”  
he tells Ivan in the dark, and those eyes focus in on the way his mouth moves,  
“I almost - “

he doesn’t finish. there’s a strange silence in the room. it’s choking. his eyes are bare and he rubs them. he almost fell, he almost lost his wings and drowned in the ocean. he inhaled the water and it cradled in his lungs as if it was home. as if it belonged. he wanted to let it swell there, wanted to let it quell the fire, the blood. the burning urge to  _devour._ he didn’t even have the chip, the signal in his head, but he could feel it in the air. the burning sensation and their hands on him.

their pain _._

“But you didn’t,” is the eventual answer, and he doesn’t know how to respond. only to take another drag of his cigarette and feel the smoke itch down his throat, righted by the mechanics that strung him together and held him tight. it’s cold, sterile,

frightening.


	2. of normality [Adam + nsfw Ivan/Adam]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> combining some small things i wrote for prompts on tumblr like a year + ago.  
> i liked a few and wanted to put them up.
> 
> real stuff comes in the next few chapters, newer stuff.
> 
> the last is vague nsfw.

everything is fuzzy.  
there are faces but not features and he can only vaguely make out tiny details. hyperaware. eyes and ears and mouths and noses and - 

maybe at one point he had a friend.  
many of his friends had only held his hand to point him in the direction best suited for them;

Jensen discovered soon that they weren’t really friends.  
fuzzy. all fuzzy. purposely fuzzy.

_hurt less that way._

Sarif was a name he would love to forget but he sees it everywhere. hears it everywhere.  
digs into him. the man he thought was his friend, thought was looking out for him…

he shoves it aside, and takes a drag of his cigarette. 

hurt less that way.

* * *

 

they’re reaching for him.  
screaming.

covered in red, their fingers like claws closed into fists as they swing and  
they’re screaming that _they hate him and he needs to die and how dare he be here_ but he is them and he is confused and tired and

“you’re jealous,” he spat, “you can’t be what you created”

Jensen found himself at the cusp of a revolution, split down the middle of machine and human and there were things put into his hands that  
he had never wanted. his vision was hazy but the hands on him - he can still feel them.

when he looks at them, in the slums, the ghettos, segregated like animals, he sees them. scared. tireless.

out for blood.

* * *

  

**_[Adam/Ivan] [nsfw]_ **

after everything, Adam thought that he was fine being alone.  
It didn’t bother him much - the women he had been with had all ended badly and he wasn’t, well, all that affectionate to begin with.

he had felt disconnected, hands ripped away and stripped of flesh and he felt a strange chill when he touched another person.

Jensen felt ghostly.  
a walking apparition.

he was married to his work and they had been living happily ever after - and then Ivan came along.

set up fort in his apartment, set up safe house in his bed. his augs ripped the sheets, tangled the blankets, and Adam quickly found himself the unwilling participant of them striking his shins as Ivan tried to wind their legs together. he would never admit that he didn’t mind it. Adam Jensen would never admit a damn thing. he was awful at it, according to several unsuccessful dates through his life. he would never dare admit that he enjoyed the other’s company. his habits. the fact that he stole Jensen’s cigarettes, the alcohol, food from the fridge would go missing. the way Ivan’s mouth found his neck one night. moved down to his collarbone. how he didn’t stop it. how that damned tongue ran up the underside of his dick, and how his fingers found hair and pulled down,

hard.

he would never admit to a soul that when Ivan looked up, nose to his skin, eyes bright and intimidating, that something woke up in him. something primal. something tongue, and teeth, and purely _human_. 

 

* * *

 


	3. of trust [Adam/Vaclav NonShip]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> experimenting with character interaction.  
> i love Václav.
> 
> some sort of stability.

"Adam?"

Václav's voice bring him back.  
everything is fuzzy; just a little too bright. 

"hey - i've been saying your name for near...five minutes?" 

he looks concerned; Adam feels nothing but tired. an ache in the pit of his chest. Václav's chair feels like it's just a tad too small.  
a little too tight, too choking. but he stomachs the feeling of claustrophobia and - every single time he's sat here he's reminded that somebody has been inside him and tampered with his systems without permission. he's cold. it races through his veins and heaps into his finger tips. somebody had crept into his systems and installed things. tampered. 

"Jensen, you okay?"  
Václav is kneeling down a bit to look up into his face, "your readings are all over the place right now." 

a hand finds his - he unconsciously squeezes.   
he hasn't felt this way since the first time he was torn apart and seamed back together. when he had failed his coworkers, his friends, the smiling faces he saw every day. when he still felt things in his legs. when his spine wasn't whatever grade of metal - before somebody had seeped further in and installed more. more. hidden augs? left half addressed with sloppy wiring? 

"hey listen," Václav is slapping his cheek a bit and Adam is lifting his head; shaking.  
trembling.  
_only slightly,_  
"why don't we make some coffee and get you out of this chair, hm? enough tinkering for one day."

the smile is genuine. 

the thought of anybody else laying their hands on him made him sick to his stomach - he squeezes Václav's hand again and nods. only pulling it away gently to rub at his aching eyes. every corner, edge, nerve - it's all tense electric with some ghost of a stranger's touch. who knows what else they ~~grabbed groped~~ opened up? how many people had manhandled him? 

there's a fleeting moment in the strange limbo before Václav hands him a cup of coffee, that Adam Jensen wishes he would have sunken to the bottom of the ocean after the explosion. wishes that he would have died; that Sarif's great investment would have hit rock bottom and only the fish could have loved him so tender. they wouldn't have violated him. stripped him of security and his sense of -

"come on," Václav is pulling him up and leading him up and away from the chair the worryingly thick liquid that pooled around it,  
"you're okay Adam." 

trust is a jaded word;  
it clatters heavy behind his teeth and he chases it back down his throat with bitter coffee.  
only partially diluted with milk and a spoonful of sugar.

the taste is nostalgic.

Adam Jensen lifts his eyes, responding softly.  
with sincerity.

"thank you."


	4. of anomalies [Adam/Ivan NonShip]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yellow hoodies and cups of coffee.  
> the silent company that just won't leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothin really shippy.  
> more a character study of Jensen reacting to situations.  
> i wrote this a few days ago and i'm hit and miss with how i feel about it. 
> 
> my Adam is different from others, i suppose. 
> 
> something quick; i'm working on another piece as we speak so hopefully that'll be up soon.

before Ivan, there was an empty space.

it’s not as if the empty space was a discomfort though - Adam had learned to live with it. it was a comfortable numb; a fuzziness he had grown used to that he only fueled with vacant boxes of cigarettes abandoned on the coffee table. with something he found in various bottles and cans; everything labeled a little differently but all the same. with overworking himself; training for hours on end and ignoring the exhaustion the ache in his joints. the way his eyes burned. the way his body begged for him to stop but _no, no,_ one more lap. 

 _one more session with the ~~body~~ boxing bag_. 

the couch would offer little comfort at the end of the day but he would take what he got; sleep would tease him - he would teeter on the edge before jerking awake at the thought of some bomb, some scream. blood. hands tearing apart bodies apart things apart people flesh skin muscle...

and then - Ivan happened.

laying on the ground, circled by vultures, pleading for help. fingers curled out, reaching towards him. towards anyone. 

Adam abandoned half a cigarette to save him; Ivan repaid him by running.   
it wasn’t really anything out of the ordinary; honestly. 

what is out of the ordinary is Ivan shows up at his apartment door later that week; 4:15 am and a bloody mess. terrified. barging his way in and cramming himself into some corner. sirens wail outside. _how did he find his apartment so easily_? the question is never asked or never answered; cops are yelling about suspected terrorists and where they’ve run and

Adam shuts the door,  
...and starts the coffee maker. 

Miller had given him the day off - not sleeping wasn’t the biggest issue he had right now; that was the terrorist in the corner of his living room, tearing off his blood soaked hoodie and letting it heap next to him. the one he had spared time to save. and that had somehow followed him home. he was far too tired to do anything about Ivan actually being here - altering the authorities would only draw a mob of them into his apartment and he didn't have the mentality to deal with it right now. it was easier just to let him linger.

“don’t touch me,” he breathes, tense, ready to fight;  
flight - “i’ll leave when they’re gone - just, dont -.”

Adam hands him a cup of coffee - Ivan looks befuddled.  
confused.

watching as Adam takes seat on the couch and turns on the TV, surpassing the news and stopping on some shitty reality TV show. “they won’t be gone for awhile - “ he says, “so you’re _kind of_ fucked.” the scrape of metal on floor catches his attention and he’s naturally tense, stiffly taking a sip of his coffee as he looks up at Ivan looming near.

“why are you -” he reaches for his pocket;

Adam pulls a gun from between the couch cushions, aiming it with precision despite his lack of sleep for the past forty-eight hours. Ivan moves slow, hesitantly removing a flask from his pocket while screwing off the top, “....being so decent.....i was going to say....”

the gun lowers.   
the both of them remain on edge. 

Ivan sits on the far side of the couch and he’s tense, flinching every time that Adam readjusts his position. the night drags on - Ivan falls into a shaky sleep but Adam does not. and when morning comes and all is quiet - the terrorist does leave wordlessly upon waking. as he promised. 

but not before gently laying the coffee cup in the sink.

an anomaly.   
Adam thinks.

one that comes back.   
that won’t go away.

because next week, he’s at Adam’s door again.   
eyes glassy and tired; Adam wordlessly lets him in.

_why?_

maybe it was because it was something different. late night visitors usually pertained to Miller for a drink or two in a rare, blue moon - but Ivan kept him on edge. kept him aware. another body in the room meant he focused on that rather than his own. 

on himself.

something weighted ebbs at the empty space the fifth time that Ivan finds himself at Adam’s door and is the one to start up the coffee machine, as if this is some routine between them now. 

ever the anomaly -  
ever the surprise -

Ivan stays the next morning; the coffee machine on it’s second pot.


	5. of fever dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> something missing.  
> alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was talking with the lovely writer Drake on here about Adam Jensen and how sad he is and was inspired for this bit. 
> 
> enjoy this sad son.  
> feels i didnt need.
> 
> you can either consider Malik alive or dead.
> 
> sorry this is more "poetic" than anything. more chunky fiction coming soon.

he awakens.  
startling; alloy lungs eating air 

 

as he jolts up.

 

in his head he's still dreaming red;   
edging the pools of it on the floor and he's   
swallowing it now. thick on his tongue. tacky in his teeth. 

his systems are crisp and aware.  
he has not yet caught up with them.

 _it's bubbling up his throat  
_ and out of his mouth.  
_tarry - rolls from his nose and over his upper lip._

_he can't hold it in._

he's reaching up with shaky hands and touching.  
aching.

feeling his chin and the red that's there but not it was  
never here. he's shaking. where did it go?

he tastes iron.

 

 

Adam's HUD is telling him that it's 3:37 in the morning. 

limbo.  
when ghosts linger.  
crawling up the sheets and curling against him.

heavy on his chest.

_he can't name them all._

the city carries on beyond his window;  
he's tucked nearly so tight in the corner that he escapes most of it but  
sirens wailing.  
people (augs) screaming.

crying. 

he quickly snaps forward and buries his hands in his hair, shoulders trembling.  
he's still dreaming red; not quite awake from the high. the rise.

the fall.

his wings had feathered apart in the ocean.

and then they crept inside of him.  
installed things.  
wires left hanging.  
frayed.

Koller thought them beautiful and he remains numb.

hands were in him.  
on his body.

he lays back in the sheets, eyes burning.  
augs cold.  
cold.  
where skin meets metal it's seamless and smooth and

cold.

he coughs,  
the black sputters and spatters and 

there's nothing for him now. 

 

 

 

 _h_ _e sends Malik an email later.  
_ _timestamp: 4:17 am  
__"I had a dream I lost you again."_


	6. of late nights [Adam/Koller]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> late nights when the bae is still up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> something fluffy i wrote for my Koller. nbd.
> 
> working on some nonship and ship stuff work has just been killing me....so have this.

the first thing Adam expects when he gets home is to find Václav hunched over a project on his living room coffee table, seated at the couch, where he’s made himself at home over the past few weeks. ever since the _almost dying_ scare, Koller had decided to ahh - practically move in?

…not that Adam particularly minded. the after work company was nice, and for once he had somebody to sit and watch some TV with. even if Václav just prattled more than actually watched. it was still company. 

the problem with today - he walks in expecting Koller a whirlwind of anxiety. a mess. as usual - but finds him instead hazy on the couch. eyes half lidded - trained on the TV show with such intent that Adam has only seen him dedicate to augs. 

he doesn’t even snap out of it, doesn’t even recognize Adam is home until the agent is less than two feet away from him - only then breaking his attention to look up and give him a sheepish smile. “Adam,” he drawls out, instantly opening his arms and reaching up -

surprising him. 

“hey Václav,” he mutters back and hooks an arm around him, pressing a soft kiss to the side of his jaw, “you…okay?” he doesn’t have to hide the tinge of concern in his voice.   


delayed response; “sleepy.” he buries his head against Adam’s shoulder and inhales deeply. exhaling a moment later, “how late is it?”

“it’s almost two in the morning,” hunching over him like this in an awkward hug is a little straining, but he keeps firm, “did you want to lay with me tonight?” a small nod and he’s sighing; using the aug-given strength to easily lift him from the couch and hold him close to his chest. Václav goes mostly slack against him, a small whine leaving as his head rolls heavy into the junction of Adam’s neck.  


Jensen manages to turn off the TV before heading back to the bedroom; “Koller, when was the last time you slept?” the question he’s been dreading to ask - the mechanic’s record in crashing here has been about forty hours, if Adam remembers correctly. 

Koller slept on his couch for a full day after that escapade, he can only imagine the repercussions of whatever hours he’s crept past this time. “two days?” it’s sounds more like a guess than anything - one that draws out an annoyed groan from Adam as he lays him down in the bed. automatically, Koller tangles himself in the sheets and pulls them over himself, a quiet sigh pushed through his nose. “are you…?”

“Yeah,” Adam is curt with his reassurance, stripping off the tactical vest, the jacket, shirt. everything and anything that wasn’t boxers - when he finally does drop onto his side, Václav is quick to find the warmth that Adam’s skin had to offer, despite the cold limbs. there’s chapped lips on his neck and a soft whine to follow, the weight of another body gone slack a creeping comfort through his systems.   


Adam can’t help but to roll over to face him, gather the mechanic in his arms and press him into his chest. fingers curl against his stomach and he wonders if this is what **normality** feels like. someone to come home to, despite their multi-day-no-sleep projects. “thank you,” Václav mutters and for circumstance, it’s not clear what the thank you is for. he wonders if it’s for finally getting him to bed. wonders if it’s for the first gentle touch the mechanic has felt in years that didn’t expect anything in return. 

wonders if it’s for the company. 

wonders if he should be thanking Václav for that too. 

he doesn’t respond back verbally, instead presses a chase kiss to the mechanic’s lips - receiving a semi conscious smile in return. genuine. 

repose in some sort of wreckage - offered in mute darkness, a day off, and a sinking, sightless sleep. 


	7. of wounded pride [[ ** triggerwarning ]]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> /dig it out/
> 
> ** gore  
> ** self harm  
> ** blood
> 
> pre MD and more beginning of HR. 
> 
> i wrote some vent stuff earlier - figured i should post it.

he wrenches his mouth open;  
his stomach turns heavy and sick slick with blood.  
gore.  
meat.

his chest burns,  
screams

until the skin creeps; crawling over muscle. dark exposed - it shines wet until he watches it disappear. Adam’s jaw quivers vulnerable. the shower is painted watercolor spectrum red and his nanoblades hiss as they make contact with the water.

he begins again.

makes the smallest noise when flesh meets ceramic and how easily it gives way. the sentinel starts as a dull ring in his ears, and when he punctures, it punctuates with a shrill screech. his stomach curls, teeth bared against the tile.

distressed, it attempts to heal. to knit itself back together. to recover the exposed muscle. the ache. to fix the damage.  
to fix the damage.

maybe if he bashed his head into the wall a few times it’d fix that too.

the blood rivers down his legs. belly. thighs. catches in his augs.  
he pulls the ceramic back, almost disappointed at instant relief that follows from his overly distressed sentinel. his chest gapes, ribs teething the muscle. he slams his forehead into the wall and resonates in the dull ache it leaves.

something.

anything.

Adam only softly sighs as the wound heals again; pink clinging to the wall tile as the water runs cold.


	8. of winter nights [Adam/Koller]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> old tv shows and the winter blues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im depressed as fuck and needed to write something in an attempt to stave it off.
> 
> give me this punk kid and big aug grump thanks  
> sorry this isn't very long or drawn out but.  
> ye.

Koller knows right when Adam walks through the door that it wasn't the best day he's ever had.

the heaviness that seems to seep through into the apartment with him  
definitely isn't from the cold. from the snow. it engulfs him. pools under his eyes and 

Václav doesn't know if he's ever seen the man so miserable. 

he swallows and tightens the joint to the arm he has been working on, leaving it abandoned on the coffee table a moment later to get up and whirlwind around Adam. arms encircling the older man's waist as he leans into his chest. interrupting the great alcohol hunt. much to Adam's discontent. 

"come sit with me," he's resting his chin against his chest, lips curling into a lazy smile, "i found a bunch of those old shows you were talking about the other day and was waiting for you to get home so we could watch them." hesitation, "i mean...if you're up for it."

a swallow.  
a ghost of a smile.

Koller wonders what's haunting him.  
wonders who's haunting him.  
their names.  
their faces.

eyes.  
smiles.  
frowns.

wonders how far they've dug  
how much blood they've drawn.

how many bodies does Adam keep in his closet  
_how many keep aching to claw out_

"come on," Koller is grabbing his hand and pulling him to the couch,

and a bad day is how he and Adam end up watching  _Twilight Zone_ for a good chunk of the remaining night. Adam stretches his legs out just a little more and Koller shifts between them, curling further against his chest. head pressed tight to Adam's shoulder as he watches the black and white heap of morality funnel out of the TV. Adam has long dozed off; one arm curled behind his head as a make shift pillow and the other drapes loosely across his lower back. 

Václav braves thieving a kiss, tilting his head up and pressing a soft one to the corner of Adam's mouth. the agent must have been awake because the smile it draws is sleepy, but conscious. eyes lidded. cracking open. they whirr with the reintroduction to the soft light. 

 _i'm here for you_ goes unsaid.

Adam reassures him by returning the kiss; soft and unyielding.   
muted grey by winter's agony. curling against window pane.  
against the front door.

but not against their hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slay me i love sappy shit bye


	9. of close calls [Adam/Koller]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> something short bc i've been up for nearly a whole day but fuck me i wanted to write  
> 

Václav Koller isn't one to complain much but --   
oh, everything aches.

the Dvali had not been kind -  
Otar had been far, far less kind than his men had.

life sure does get put into perspective when staring down the barrel of a gun. men held his hands down against his chair. his arms. pinned him firm, steady. a last phone call before his death and there's Adam's voice and Otar is grinning wide and wild. he starts talking about some deal he and Adam had and how it's Adam's fault that Otar is about to put a bullet through the middle of his forehead. 

if he had been told that a few days later he'd be spending his third night on Adam's couch, he would have pissed himself laughing. shit, he almost did piss himself in that chair. fingers clutched around the armrests and begging, begging, crying out Adam's name. he needs him. he  _needs_ him more than ever. he watched with his own two eyes, Otar's trigger finger twitch, as if now was the moment. now was the moment he was going to shoot him end his life put him down like a street mangled dog.

he -  
Adam.  
Adam had saved him.  
Adam had saved him and demanded he come home with him.

it was not a suggestion.

the guilt gathered at the corner of Adam's eyes was enough to goad Václav into packing a small bag. taking whatever clothes weren't heaped in shit and blood and just. following him home. Otar's ruined body lay crumpled in front of the chair. heaped over and slouched. part of his head blown off. 

there's other bodies he has to weave around to get out, but the smell of blood had already made him sick enough.   
he chose not to look at them.

...

and now he's here, tucked under a blanket in the whole open space of Adam's luxury apartment tucked in an aug part of town that had a reputation for murders, discrimination, and other things that a task force agent should  _not_ have to endure. it almost ( ~~he's too tired~~ ) makes him angry, Adam being treated like just another aug. just another fucking aug when he's out there risking his life for people and augs alike and --

he startles at a shuffling outside of the door and then seizes in place, pulling further under the blanket because he thinks it's Dvali. thinks it's Otar back from the dead to seek his revenge. it's quiet for a moment and then more shuffling. a murmur low of voices.

Václav is slipping hurriedly off the couch, blanket still caught around him, and ghosts back to Adam's room. he nudges the door open just enough to slip in and then pushes it closed with his hip, fear swallowing his embarrassment as he crawls into bed with his client-turned-savior. he clings near the edge of the bed because he doesn't want to be a bother but he just. needs him close. needs him there. needs him. 

"Koller?" the voice is muddled with sleep and he just makes a tiny sound at his name, disappointed in himself that he's woken Adam. that he's this weak. "everything alright?" the concern peaks his voice and he props himself up with his arm, eyes a little brighter. a little more aware. 

a shiver, "there were...people outside of the door." the shame creeps up hot in his neck and he watches as Adam hesitates before dropping back down against his pillow with a low hum. something easy.

"neighbors," he says, and something tells Koller that Adam has dealt with the issue himself enough times to know, "sorry they woke you." 

but he doesn't kick him out. he instead settles back into the mattress closing his eyes again and sighing heavily through his nose. trying to calm his systems again. smooth them over. Václav is guessing that his HUD had kicked on to try and foresee any danger - that takes a few moments to suppress again. there's a _bang_ of something falling in the distance and Koller startles, jerks the bed and presses into the mattress as if to make himself smaller.

he lets out a small noise as a strong arm hooks around him and drags him close; he mechanic doesn't question the action and immediately curls against the chest offered to him. "sleep," Adam says after a moment, thick with exhaustion and half muffled by his pillow, "nothing will hurt you here."

crazy thing?

...Václav Koller  _believes_ him.


	10. of ghosts [ Adam/Koller]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tension.  
> tension.  
> tension.
> 
> together.
> 
>  
> 
> **** tw: implied sexual abuse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in this Vacdam mood lately.  
> rip ficlet collection.  
> weh.  
> this one just came out as half a vent. 
> 
> and a character study.

"what did they  _do,_ Koller?"   
Adam's voice edges on dangerous and Václav can't   
look at him.   
he can't.

he can't look and it gives everything away. 

"can we just let it go Adam?"  
his voice is small.  
small.  
tired.  
he's safe, here.  
tucked away tight in Adam's apartment.

warm.  
golden in the morning when the sunrise  
arches heavy across the couch.

"it's not worth it."

( _Koller wakes up in a panic_  
_and he feels hands on him_  
_crawling up his body_  
_thighs_  
_back_  
_legs_  
_hips)_

"i'm here now, i'm safe. _"_

Adam sighs sharp and pulls the mechanic into his side. into comfort.  
into love. wrapped in black and prickled anger. Václav rests his chin against Adam's shoulder and  
it isn't shame. but he feels something. something he can't pinpoint. " -and i love you," this mechanic offers softly,  
"no matter how tough you act." Adam gives a sharp huff as a finger prods his cheek, the rain on the window white noise.   
a weird comfort. there's a lingering tension, a creep. a curl. a whisper up his spine. Václav thinks that Adam has always had suspicions of   
things that Otar had done to him. that Radich had done to him. but those things were ghosts that had vacated house when Adam had stepped through the door. they were only memories now; smells and sounds. a stutter of sickness that rolled through his stomach and then slowly settled. there were certain touches he didn't like. certain times of day. certain - things. just things. Adam had simply squeezed his thigh a little too high - just the slightest bit too high and Koller had flinched and instinctually attempted to pull away. and then

 **he** realized.  
_he_ realized.

Koller couldn't meet his eyes and he settled back and down and into his side and then

this is where they were now. Adam angry. angry at him? no. them. angry at them. and Koller is left to wonder what festers in the dark corners of the living room of the bedroom what is he not seeing how many pairs of eyes are.  _raking over his body his skin his everything. examining ---_

"Twilight Zone?"   
Václav asks meek, trying to pull from the thought, "i found more episodes...."

"...sure."  
Adam sinks into the couch, resolve crumbling at how tiny the mechanic's voice  
has become - he hooks his arm heavier around him. keeping close  
keeping warm.  
dimly lit, coupled with the patter of rain and

the receding of ghosts.


	11. of god dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> once upon a time, i was human
> 
> **gore  
> **blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my friend and rp bud smooshkin said something about adam relapsing from my current content adam and this was the result. a bit of venting? but it was good. 
> 
> also hey, long time no post. been awhile. I have some stuff comin' up soon for you. some jensif/jensard stuff?? and some more Adam drabbles.

Foolish, he thinks.  
Foolish, he knows. 

He looks down at the ruin and flexes his fingers, watching the polycarbonate shimmer in the low light. cold. If he could find the will to speak, he thinks the words would strangle out like static. 

Built by a mortal god to enact wrath - what more to him than that?

Adam Jensen had died, that night. Adam Jensen had been shot in the head, his ex-girlfriend stolen away in front of him. He would never know what happened to her. He would never know of her betrayal. 

It was...better that way. 

Adam Jensen should have been carted away to a morgue and laid to rest. He should have been allowed to rest. Necropsy had called - and who had answered? He wants to find them, he wants to jam a nanoblade in their chest and tear, pull. he wants to watch the meat part and the sinews chew and pop and 

this is toxic.  
no, this is mechanical.  
no, this is what you built me for. 

There should be a headstone,  
next to mom, next to dad.  
There should be a headstone,  
something proud, something sad.

Electric ghost, strung together with blood and selfishness. outfitted with serrated blades and the humanity fades - his guts curl cold and he hears the sentinel chatter as it eats at the cigarette smoke. as it filters it. fixates. fixates. 

His lips turning to snarl. 

“Jensen -” Pritchard's voice fizzles back to life in his head.  
He falls quiet again at Adam's bite of rage, dread - “Tell David, mission success.” 

He stopped toeing the pool of blood long ago, ashes sputtering into it as he taps the cigarette between his fingers. The bodies heap - he couldn’t help it. Hostile and angry - they hadn’t been built to take him. 

If only they had a God to pray to,  
he thinks, bitterly.


	12. of surviving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i've seen you in the distance. 
> 
> i see you in the distance. 
> 
> and you keep running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have you ever been pretty not okay before

Adam sighs.

Teetering on some cusp of wrong or right and there’s an icicle impaled in his chest, lumped into the beating bump of some heart sung sweetly by a man who loved humanity so much that, wait -

thinking styles  
thinking styles

wading through war blown streets of Detroit with wings too bright to burn under icarus and his folly. they flare. he fixates. balled up and belly sick in the heaviness foisted upon him to shoulder a humanity that had never fostered him in return.

Adam, sometimes you will give with no get.

he knows, but something needs to give if he’s to get better. If he’s to sink his puppy-loved claws into the meat of the machine that’s swallowed all his pieces and dig them out. please. dig them out.

cigarettes in the snow, a lonely tomb he’s imprisoned himself in outside of Sarif Industries and he remains still. Motionless, a dove caught in the crossfire of a bullet and then hacked back together by big business government and isn’t it hard feeling less than human?

one drag for yes,  
two for no.

there’s aftermath caught in the undertow. a man who can’t scrape up enough courage to admit that he’s hurting and a city that’s content with fucking burning. shrapnel in his chest that grinds with every breath and he’s nothing short of impatient when it comes to the sickening twitch of fingers in his guts and pulling. pulling. decadent red that covers the entire cake that they’ve thrown out.

his sweet tooth is past rotted, to the point he craves the touch in droves and then he lays in sheets at night he yearns for a hand to lace his fingers and sing the chorus of being okay and where has it gone? she left - no, you asked her to leave.

she ate the bed and the tables too, you kept the couch and smoked cigarettes in the snow.

Didn’t you?

his cheeks bit pink - they’re still human - and he sunk down against the building and the glittering mass of white blankets him numb. crammed back into some black hole and teethed apart before he can address the aching shovel of loss.

he’s yet to ease himself back into living,  
he’s still surviving.

still thinking the teeth are at the back of his neck and looking to pull meat from flesh from bone and the sinews pop as he’s mounted and his eyes are far, far away. into the future of another day where he’s baking under a hot sun and smoking a cigarette and missing the snow that kept him captive once.

he’s pulled the icicle free.

the blood is frozen but his wild heart is not. thundering at the song of some dying patter. shocked back to life by a belated cry.

poetry, prose.  
poise.

pretty.

folding in on himself and keeping still, prey and praying to some god built in his image.


	13. of waking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> but you've always been dreaming. 
> 
> but you've never been sleeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im in a lot of pain and don't feel well.  
> adam usually comes to help me cope.
> 
> thanks for reading.

You woke up in Detroit.

Under the falling snow and the ice is seeping into everything broken. What’s different? Adam asks. Everything, you answer. There’s a separation between beast and machine but you think that he’s still here. Everything is altogether one and there’s no need to heave your dinner up into a frozen pile in the park and there are people walking nearby and they don’t see you because

you’re a ghost, isn’t that funny?

Adam haunts his own body, a coasting along the water’s edge. broken into the lake’s surface and everything is boned chilled cold.

You wake up in Prague.

Under a heavy comforter and nothing is real. Everything is spindled in the tips of your fingers and you have four missed messages from people who love you. Adam knows there are problems, he can feel them clawing and screeching in his stomach. Sobbing in his chest.

Sobbing in his -

who put you back together?

the answers rattles in your mouth and you can’t quite tell them when they ask. everything aches. nothing should ache. everything aches. everything should ache. you deserve this, don’t you? what have you done? who are you?

_hello, yes, who is this?_

You wake up in Alaska.

Under the steady gaze of someone they said is supposed to be watching over you. Adam laughs until he tears the ribs from his godforsaken chest and chews the rest of the meat off them.

fuck you.

get your hands out of me.

You wake up in Detroit.

Under the false pretense that you’re safe.

you’re not, Adam.

the park is quiet and your friends have gone home and you sit by the pile of your innards. they’re too frozen to force back down your throat.

spring will come.

You wake up in Prague.

Under the worried eyes of a friend and you think that maybe he should have let you burn. There’s a prickling up his spine and Adam doesn’t know how to tell the good doctor that he’s not Adam. He’s not Adam. I’m not Adam.

i’m not Adam.

Oh go -

You wake up in Alaska.

...

Under the sea, you don’t wake up in Alaska.

your headstone is a lapping wave on a beach.

You wake up in Detroit.

 

Under the blaring alarm and you’re bleeding out. Adam thinks that he can make peace.

Adam makes peace.

You wake up in Prauge.

 

Under the pretense that you want this to stop, please stop. Adam is supposed to be well put together. Only the finest tech! Sarif had raved and Adam doesn’t know how to tell anybody that he’s not okay.

you can’t even smile.

something is very wrong. when he touches the mirror he knows it isn’t him.

Who are you?

You woke up.


	14. of weight carried

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i thought i told you to stay away. 
> 
> i thought i told you to stay away. 
> 
> i thought i told you that you couldn't get rid of me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's trash ass son came back 
> 
> Ivan is one of those characters that goes and then comes leaping back in like a bat out of hell and demands fiction from me.
> 
> hella.

The water sputters as he kicks it up, head hung and eyes angled up like some type of predator. Ragged fingers curled like claws, ticked together as he drags his tread across concrete. Yellow. Yellow. High alert and warning

Warning

His shoulders are aching. Unsettled and burning, prickled down his spine as he swallows tight around the –

Haha. Vomit me up – It says. Barbed and hooking, crawling down to nestle in his belly and breed bitter. Caught in his teeth. Trembling.

Ivan straightens as he lingers at the street corner, glowering and fixated on a chunk of sidewalk that’s been upturned. Shifted. There’s cops near him. Staring.

Fixated on him.

Heh.

His eyes widen and he can hear them talking low. Casual. About the augs they’ve beaten and bruised and he knows it’s meant to scare him.

Funnily enough? It does.

They edge closer – he stands his ground. Lip curling into a quiet snarl as he’s finally allowed to cross. He cobbles through the crowd and stone and lurches forward at a yell. Nearly scatters. Laughter. He glances over his shoulders at the cops lingering near their car, arms folded over their chests and they’re fixated on new prey. A heavily augged woman, meek and mousy. Tucked against the corner but -

Figures.

Factual.

Fiction.

Caught in his thighs and bumbled into his spine. Is that fear, Ivan?

No, it’s **anger.**

They’re harassing her –

 _Is_ that fear, Ivan?

No, it’s –

He’s bolting back, turning immediately and abusing his dash to make it across the street. Shoulders arched forward, head dropped down and the full of his weight crammed directly into the ballistic chest of the cop with his hands on her.

Vomit it up; he’s chewing. Fingers clawed and tearing back. Augs whining. She’s running, everyone is running except for the select few hanging back to watch him beaten into the road. He knows their types.

He knows their types.

But he won’t give that to them today, bounding away amidst a spray of bullets and aching. Springing sharp onto a dumpster and then a low roof, fingers scrabbling and shoulder bloody from a little hot piece of metal and it’s scraping, grinding.

Yellow, Yellow  
Red

High alert, shouting for his head.

He keeps running, legs carrying him from rooftop to rooftop and he’s trying to ignore the burning in his shoulders. The burrs in his throat that he can’t swallow. The crashing across the shingles, scraping them with his weight and he’s wheezing.

Eyes sharp, he closes them. Listened to the muted bustle, needled sharp by teeth. Soaking through, he pulls in on himself and bites a sharp huff through his nose, choking around his tongue.

Around the blood.

Is _that_ fear, Ivan?

No, it’s –


	15. of finding yourself with a gun in your hands and making hard decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the muzzle fits so perfectly against your teeth
> 
> so why is the trigger so hard to pull

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear to god adam usually isn't this sad  
> im just sad 
> 
> a friend recently shared a story about how a few months back he bought a shot gun and a pack of beer with intent to kill himself but didn't get that far bc they wouldn't sell him ammo. 
> 
> it resonated with my muse and im not sure why and it came out in vent writing. 
> 
> wasn't going to post it because i usually dont share this heavy of my adam writing but Anomalee on here made me feel better. a mostly unedited vent and just a hash full of stream of conscious word vomit. 
> 
> enjoy.

Sealed with gold. caught in teeth.    
caught in teeth in gold in fangs 

in gold tipped fangs in skin in skin and there’s bone to chew through but it still happens and Adam is lost against the fog ridden sky as he looks over the lake in the morning and there’s an aching sense of loneliness in his

joints. jointed. gold. in the ocean. the atmosphere. where have you gone?

i’m not sure. 

Adam, won’t you come back?

the start again is terrifying and i’ve done enough. cheek against my knees. gold tipped teeth. brown with blood. gold with blood. veined thin and molten and there’s tears there, aren’t there?

No, yes.  
Maybe. 

yes, 

(You know i’m lying.) 

caught in stardust. choked. split down my throat. tiresome. stuffed with newspaper and the headlines of four murders that you couldn’t stop and once when you were a cop you took every case personally and entertained the brief idea that maybe a shotgun to your head would stop the 

madness. the run on sentences. the failures. the fixations. and that’s depression, isn’t it?

the heaviness of gold capped fangs and the blood caught in them and you’re seated at the side of Lake Michigan with some thoughts of starting again and you had a pistol Adam you could have

caught gold in your teeth. capped with blood. with some ache in your cheeks and balled under your eyes your black hands hold your knees and throb with the time of dissociative fireflies blinking in an SOS over the field. 

Over the lake. over the teeth in gold in fangs and they’re tearing at ports at joints at your wanting to be whole again. Nothing is coming together. you’re sealed to the atmosphere and you’re intangible and cannot start again and your hands are finding the wood of the dock and you’re amazed it’s not rotted yet. 

isn’t depression just a gathering of stars in something so black that you can’t tear the sky away to see the day so you pretend the pinprick of fireflies is something you can live with but you can’t see what you’re doing and 

Adam, are you coming back?

Yes, no.  
Maybe. 

no

(You know i’m lying.) 

 

Sealed with gold. caught in teeth.    
caught in teeth in gold in fangs  and tipped with 

gold and 

the water is cold when he jumps in. 

seals himself to the atmosphere. 

and tries again. 


	16. of living again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i've been struggling to write lately but this kinda crawled out. 
> 
> enjoy. thanks for reading.

breathe in, breathe out.

where has your steadiness gone?

caught behind your teeth, between them. rooted in the gums and your eyes are fixated on everything and nothing at once. it’s blanketing. you’re back in detroit except that you’re not. 

knee deep in the snow, Adam pulls a drag off his half-frozen cigarette and lets the smoke trail from his lips like some slumbering dragon. his quiet eyes are flickering over everything diamond and geometric. 

no snowflake is the same they’d told him in school when he had stood at the window as a child and watched it drift down. cover the swing set. cover the slide. white against scuffed yellow. 

a beacon out in the storm. 

when he had returned home that day and told his mother what he learned, she gave this little laugh and ruffled his hair. her hands were cold. nails caught a little too hard. _that’s what they tell everyone_ , she said a little too distant, a little too removed, _they all melt in the end anyway_.

Adam had never adopted that, but he also never forgot it. 

the sun radiates across the city and he’s transfixed on the way that everything falls into place. pieces of a puzzle. jagged image upon jagged edge and he’s somehow crammed them into place to fit. 

the white dusts the leather of his shoulders and he’s no desire to brush it off. it bites at his warm cheeks and he’s impersonating humanity under the drifting sky of a storm off-put. 

breathe in, breathe out.   
that’s how it works, right? of course, Adam. that’s how everything works. built at the base and drained of their blood and faster

faster now. you **are** human, sacked in your skin is the dna that a thousand men seek and crave and want because you’re different. no snowflake is the same. woven together under schoolyard innocence and layered and layered and layered and

there’s no impersonating the healing of your heart. your mother’s vacant sneer hasn’t left your head but you knew (and still know) that she was only headached over the idea that she had never experienced what it was like to be human. 

she was medication, you are snow. 

Adam reaches forward with his pretty black hand to let the flurry of flakes curl over his beckoning fingers. burying in the joints. hazy in his head. he can’t see their varying shapes, but he knows they exist. 

wound in the mind, body, soul

start at the base, branch out. from vein to vein. 

_ you are alive.  _


	17. of dipping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fixations.  
> fixations. 
> 
> the pull apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry some of my writing tips more towards personal in this fic set, especially as of recently.   
> thanks for reading, regardless. 
> 
> it makes me happy people still like adam tbh.

The dipping of liminal spaces and barest places and he’s 

watching the thin line of cigarette smoke dissipate into the air of sarif industries and looking to the window that David perches at and stares at the city

sorry

his city. his city. teethed apart and teethed together and teethed apart and -  _ excuse me, you’ve lost some, let me get those for you _ \- teethed together. together. 

reaching through the boundary and Adam wants to bite the hand away that offers skin offers skin and the teeth and

you’re fixating.   
you’re fixating and 

I know!  
I know. 

Adam stands at his window and perches over the -   
He stands at the window and -

Fuck. He slams his hand against the glass and the papers flutter and he stalks away as he thinks of teeth at his thighs at his hips at his throat and

biting and chewing through and there’s red and white. pearled and pumping. Trickling down over ports and the

liminal spaces. bleeding through. touching into other timelines where he touches his open neck and thinks that this is life. this is where he’s supposed to be. sat in some chair in the cold and he’s dying. 

perched over India and  
perched over Detroit and

everything is 

sorry. 

I’m fixating.   
I’m fixating and

you know. 


	18. of breaking again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> break through.
> 
> start over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vomits poetic bullshit.

It’s all caught in his teeth - the insecurities and the securing of necessities. 

Here and there.   
Here and there.

Hearsay and there he is, heckled and hackled and backed into a corner with fingers curled into palms. Too defensive, too cracked. 

Filled with gold.  
And broken again.

What are you trying to say, Adam? Let’s conversate. Your words are filtered through the haze of something colored far, far too dark and it’s muffled through the chattering voices that speak over you.

For you.

You have a thought and it snakes away again. The fingers penning the words aren’t quite sure where to turn to now and there’s a figure standing professionally tall in the distance. Adam can’t see the features, but the taste in his mouth is oddly familiar. 

You built me up to write me apart again.

_ I know, I know.  _

There was a lie and the world had shattered and the reality had come creeping back in that this flavor is toxic and there’s the clatter of teeth over aug over metal. There’s blood in the shower again.

I think I’ve stained the grout. 

There’s bleach and water and a toothbrush and - it fizzles with peroxide and you dig into your skin knowing it’s self destruction and yet by any other name it tastes as sweet. 

Venting, venting, validation.  
The perfecting of perfection. 

The toppling of the tower you’ve been climbing at their beckoning. One more step, just one more step. Over the edge - trust me. I’ll catch you at the bottom.

I’ve forgotten how to write hands - how do you pen those again.

Gold and black, or skinned?   
Elegant or crude?

Or ghosting, ghosting. Reaching through you as you hit the ground and trying to scoop the organs back in through your open mouth. Frozen, forced back down your throat and no, no these aren’t mine -

Adam stands in his bedroom and heaves some heavy breath. Woken up from a battering dream of words and phrases. smilies. similar. the sun had spoken to him, cupped his cheeks and assured that no matter the damage that the gold would hold him together -  
you are beautiful, it said. 

He had laughed. 

Fallen apart in its warming grasp and prickled cold as he sunk into the sea and curled in on himself and the ice. and the ice. 

Here and there.  
Here and there.

Bursting through the wall of reality and sinking.  
smiling. 

And broken again.


	19. of borrowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> im really bad with proofing especially when im suffering from horrible writer's block. 
> 
> took inspiration from robert frost's fire and ice for the first and ts elliot's the hollow men for the second. putting that english major to good use. 
> 
> adam is a constant especially when im feeling down, he's the muse that never leaves.

He’s running, running, running. 

tearing through the maze of his mastery, blades scraping the ground as he turns the corner and bares his pretty golden teeth in the shadow of some god. looming. that machine and those angels whimpering, whining for death and waxing under the sea with broken fingers

and water-logged limbs.   
linger, linger

left to linger, Adam.

Dodging and dangling, self-crucifixion and she’s crying that she can’t control it and he’s running, running, running

and pressing his back to everything that can shield him. hide him from the horrors that live under the ocean that called Darrow *daddy* or something as equal to the disgust thick in his throat. that he can’t swallow down. wavering and 

whimpering as he puts them out of their misery, their wings so tattered under the saddened gaze of icarus and the dead daedalus that had drowned in the ocean under the fall of 

everything holy. everything pieced together with parting eyes and withered poetics. don’t fly too close to the sun, he had been warned. Icarus had fluttered predatory, caught up in the inclination of blood and body. 

“So what will it be Adam?” 

Eliza’s voice is sorrowful, or is he just imagining this it the mania of comfort? to feel something human, to touch the warmth of skin in his poor, pretty hands. all laden with gold, and he’s running, running, 

running out of time. 

Some say the world will end with fire,  
but from what he’s tasted

He’ll feel the ice as it rushes in, curling close around his cottony head as he fixates on the focal point with his teeth and tastes the salt

sweat and tears from dear daedalus and all his hard work. crushed by the very sea that’s hindered his escape, and all at once set him free. 

=*=*=*=

This is how the world ends   
This is how the world ends

Adam swallows as he thinks of it all. Of all the raging bodies and their flailing arms, their minds plagued by horrors of hollowed hearts and spindling shadows. creeping. creeping. burrowing into their exhausted heads and worming behind their eyes. 

We are the suffered men, he thinks. A curled tongue over teeth and a tired nod in Eliza’s direction. A mixture of emotions, tuned to the whining thoughts of shape without form. Fluid, the groaning ocean begging to be without motion. Gesturing to his choice, the weight crushing his already scarred shoulders. 

He hopes that -  
He hopes that -

David remembers him - if at all - not as lost and violent, but rather misguided. smothered and choked by the marriage of metered lives. Addiction and mania. Neglect and the product of not feeling like himself. 

Pieced together and sealed lovingly in yellowed gold, peeling away in the pressure of the ocean. He’s fair and quiet. More distant and solemn than a fading star, Adam finds himself wishing that he had gotten to tell David one more time

one more time

that he found himself full of love and whimsically fixated on the semblance of a normal life. Something full, something teeming, trembling with the kindness under the happy parting of lips. 

Pulling prayer from his stony sighs, his cold demeanor and

This is how the world ends

Not with a bang but

He closes his eyes, listening to the whimpering structure as the water closes in. 


End file.
